


Potentially Deadly Medieval Femslash

by bad_decisions



Series: AO3 Tag Generator Drabbles [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, D/s, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Frottage, Knifeplay, Sex Magic, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Woman Hawke, Trans Woman Isabela, electrostim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad_decisions/pseuds/bad_decisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic prompt filled on tumblr, Isabela/F!Hawke, for the ao3 tag generator tag 'potentially deadly medieval femslash'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potentially Deadly Medieval Femslash

**Author's Note:**

> this work can also be found here http://nonbinarygreywarden.tumblr.com/post/130326592347/fhawkeisabela-they-could-probably-come-up-with on my tumblr

Brief breath-catching, a second of silence. A moment held taut, a thread between two fingers. Isabela pants, turns her wrist in the cuff, and Hawke smiles with a knife in her hand, a knife limned in lightning that crackles over her hand and her arm like a silk glove, the kind worn to Orlesian balls.

Isabela smiles back. There is blood on her teeth.

Hawke leans over the bed, licks blood and sweat and come from Isabela’s belly. The thread twists, frays. The moment is coming apart as quickly as it came to being, the stillness cannot be held for long by two women so hungry for pain and pleasure and each other.

“Ready?” Hawke breathes over the shell of Isabela’s ear. Ready to keep going? To dive again into madness and lust?

Strands snap, the thread is pulled apart, held together only for seconds longer, held together only by the need for Isabela’s consent.

“Ready,” Isabela answers.

The thread snaps.

Lightning arcs, Isabela arches. The restraints pull tight against the bedposts, and then slacken – Hawke has climbed atop her lover, holding her down with the brute strength of her thighs and grinding their groins together. Shaft slides against shaft, a moan, a scream, a deep, delighted, drawn-out laugh.

Hawke’s knife cuts, stings and bleeds but not too deep, not too deep – hurt, not maim, pleasure and pain on a sword-edge, never go over – a red line running from one dark nipple to the other across Isabela’s heaving chest. Blood seeps, slowly, sensually, smeared by Hawke’s own chest as she shoves forward.

Clatter, knife tossed aside. No longer needed, the end is coming. No lightning, the heart so near – ice, snap, cold through the wound, the pain leaves, numbed, returns transformed and singing and so cold it burns. Isabela’s body rolls up, her own strength fighting Hawke’s in a desperate push for heat and friction.

Lips meet in a messy exultation, the taste of iron and bitter salt and happiness, together, together, together. Hawke runs her fingers over their tips, pressed close between rocking hips.

A plateau comes again, sensation overwhelming them both in a long, long moment that is not, not _quite_ , enough.

Hawke breaks it with a spark.

It shatters as they do, and howl and hold each other close, the cuffs only having held Isabela as long as she let them have her.

As long as she let Hawke have her.


End file.
